My son is shoving super-sized doots into his ears and spinning ecstatic circles around the bathroom.
I tried getting him learned, so to speak, by illustrating cartoons and orchestrating puppet shows about how a doot is a tampon and a tampon is for hemorrhaging lady bits. Lady bits are not small snack crackers but consist of scrambled eggs, ping-pong ovaries, swirly tubes, one water balloon of a uterus, and a vagina thrown in for good measure. This vagina, in turn, is the price a woman pays for not beating Adam to the party.
Still, he twirls.
We go outside. I’m wearing sweatpants in 94-degree heat because they are two-sizes too big on a good day but barely elastic enough on a bad one. I’m feeling dangerously close to the Thrice Belly zone, and understanding that thrice is two too many(in regards to stomach rolls, not dinner rolls), I make a note that this is a very, very bad day. The dog comes up to me again. Tail wagging as it’s been for days, she burrows her snout into my shorts for another game of Period Crotch Smells Weird. Sniffeth!
I made the poor decision to breeze through pregnancy without a single craving and end the show with a dazzlingly calm birth of a 10+ pound Man Child. As I spend my week of female flooding face down, whimpering into a vat of Haagen-Dazs, I feel him roll his eyes in my direction as if to say “Buck up, old girl. This ain’t no thing. ‘Member that time you shot that big ‘un out like whoa? Now, how’s about you cook me supper?”.
I was down and wishing I was out of uterine wall lining. I sought comfort in Midol and grumpy curse words under my breath. The tardy mailman is, in my defense, an a@$f!*#mot$*^!c@&%!er. I wondered what the neighbors would think if I protested menstrual cycles in the front yard: Hell No! Stop The Flow! signs or maybe just a somber display of feminine hygiene products, a moment of silence for those brave, absorbent souls who’ve lost their lives to pointless monthly warfare. More than anything, I wished I could get this house of men to understand the savage cramping staging a private Fight Club all up in my business. I tried to explain the horrors of womanhood delicately before my hormones sparked and fizzled. I wound up disgusting myself out with stories of innards and bloodbath and sacrificing reproductive organs to the Maxi Gods. And then I found him, the perfect means to educating these Weens on the injustice of periods, the one dude that finally gets it. He’s four.
Blo000od! Bloooooood! Is not funny!
And truer words were never spoken.